March 14, 2024 Diary
I was only three when my mother was taken from me. I still recall the screech of the motorbike that roared past us, the way she shoved me out of its path, and then the flash of her scarlet dress as the flames licked the air. The world went black, and a dreadful silence settled over everything. The doctors did all they could, and eventually my eyes opened again, though the memory of that day lingered like a heavy fog.
For months I kept my mouth shut, refusing to speak of my mum. I waited in that quiet, waiting for a voice to call her name. The first time I actually screamed Mum! was in a nightmare, a sudden, desperate cry that tore through the night. In that dream the red flame returned, burning brighter than before, and the memory of her came rushing back. By then I had been placed in the Barnet Childrens Home, a place I could never understand why I had been sent to.
I fell into a habit of standing by the large sash window that looked out over the main road and the old railway bridge. I would stare down the road, eyes narrowed, waiting for a reddressed figure to appear.
Why do you keep doing that, lad? grumbled Mrs. Whitcombe, the matron, as she swished her broom across the hallway.
Im waiting for my mother. Shell come for me, I replied, voice thin.
She sighed, Dont stand there all day, love. Lets have a cuppa and some biscuits instead.
I nodded, but as soon as the tea was gone I was back at the window, flinching whenever anyone approached the home. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and still I never left my post. I imagined the day when, amidst the drab grey of a typical English afternoon, a woman in a scarlet dress would stride into view, stretch out her arms, and say, At last I have found you, my boy!
Mrs. Whitcombe watched me with pity, more for me than for the other children. Doctors, psychologists, social workers all tried to counsel me, telling me not to waste my life waiting by that window, that there were games to play, friends to make. I would nod politely, but the moment they left, I would slip back to the sill. I lost count of how many times Mrs. Whitcombe saw my silhouette reflected in the glass as she started her shift, and how many goodbyes she waved without ever knowing if Id ever see her again.
One evening, after a long day of cleaning, Mrs. Whitcombe headed home across the railway bridge. Few people lingered there, but a young woman stood at the far side, eyes fixed on the tracks below. She made a sudden, almost imperceptible motion, and I understood what she intended.
Youre a foolish one, I heard her say, stepping a little closer.
What? the stranger asked, her eyes dull but fierce.
Foolish! Do you not know it is a great sin to waste your life? You didnt choose this fate, nor can you end it yourself.
Then what if I cant go on? she shouted, desperation cracking her voice. What if I have no strength left?
If thats the case, come with me. I live just past the crossing; we can talk there. No point standing here.
She turned and walked away, her steps slow but determined. I watched her disappear, feeling a strange relief that she had moved on.
Later, a woman called Milly approached me. Whats your name, you little fool? she asked, halfsmiling.
Milly, she replied, the name sounding as if it were plucked straight from the English countryside.
My dear, that was my daughters name. She died five years ago, a fever took her quickly and left me alone. I have no children, no husband, no grandchildren. Im called Mrs. Whitcombe. Come in, make yourself at home. Ill ready a meal, well have tea, and perhaps things will look up.
Milly thanked her, and a strange warmth settled over the room. Later, Milly confessed, Im not strong, you know. It feels like madness has taken hold of me.
Millys story unfolded like a tragic novel. She had been born in a village in Norfolk, lived a carefree childhood until her father abandoned the family for a new life with another wife and children. Her mother, unable to bear the loss, turned to drink, lashing out at Milly. In revenge, her mother began taking strangers home, neglecting all household duties, leaving the chores to her teenage daughter. The familys modest savings were soon squandered by her mothers drinking companions.
Milly took any odd job she could find: weeding gardens, delivering parcels, earning food in return. She fed her ailing mother, never receiving gratitude, and learned early that a stable family was a fantasy. Her father never called, and rumors claimed he had moved abroad. The loneliness of the village, which was otherwise prosperous, made Milly an outcast from a young age.
One night, a drunken intruder forced his way into Millys cramped room. By sheer luck she escaped through the window, fleeing into the cold night. She spent the predawn hours hidden in an old barn, then, once the house fell silent, she packed her documents, a few coins, and a handful of clothes, and left for good.
A few weeks later, her father, John, arrived in the town, hoping to see his daughter. The sight of the derelict cottage stunned him; he searched the neighbours, but no one knew where Milly was. He spent days in his battered lorry, weeping for the lost years, cursing himself for returning so late.
John had been a longhaul truck driver. During one of his trips he met a wealthy unmarried woman named Grace. She repeatedly hired his transport company, always insisting he be the driver. She liked his steady nature, and soon they were together. Over the years she bore two sons, then announced she was leaving England.
Do you want to come with us? she asked John one evening. If not, return to your wife. I love you, John, and it will be hard without you, but I wont force you.
John chose Grace, unwilling to split his life between two families. Millys mother, exhausted by constant jealousy and drink, faded from his thoughts.
When Milly was at school, John returned home early and found his wife with another man. That was the final straw. He told Milly that her father had abandoned them, and she would never see him again. Unable to stay, Milly fled to London. There she found a kindly older lady, Mrs. Hargreaves, who rented her a tiny room. Milly paid three months rent in advance; when the lease ended, Mrs. Hargreaves offered her a place in exchange for looking after her.
For five years Milly tended to Mrs. Hargreaves, and in the last two years the old woman was bedridden. When Mrs. Hargreaves passed away, Milly, heartbroken, discovered she had been named sole heir to the modest flat on the outskirts of the city.
Eventually Milly met Mark, a respectable banker. Their romance seemed promising, but after two years of marriage Milly walked in on him with another woman. He did not apologise; instead he threw the lover out, then assaulted Milly so violently she ended up in hospital. She never told Mark she was pregnant; the baby was lost, and doctors warned her that another pregnancy was unlikely. She lost everything: husband, home, even the flat she had inherited, as Mark sold it and bought a flashy car.
After leaving the hospital, Milly wandered aimlessly until she found herself at a railway bridge. Mrs. Whitcombe, who had been listening quietly to Millys tale, finally spoke:
Nothings ruined yet, love. You still have a life ahead of you. Stay with me for a while; I work all day and only get home at night.
Milly stayed for two weeks, and in that short time a new hope began to bloom. The local police constable, Officer Gregory, stopped by to introduce himself to the residents. Mrs. Whitcombe was out, so he talked with Milly, promising to return. He kept his word, visiting often and soon becoming a trusted friend.
One afternoon Gregory called Milly, Do you know Ivan Savelov?
Yes, thats my father.
Hes been looking for you for years.
When her father finally reappeared, he was overjoyed. He bought Milly a decent flat, opened a respectable savings account, helped her secure a good job, and pledged to visit more often.
A few months later I went to see Mrs. Whitcombe with a few treats. She lay in bed, feverish and weak.
Dont worry, Auntie Whitcombe, Ive called an ambulance. Theyll be here shortly, I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
She smiled faintly, You know I work at the home, right? Theres a boy, little Charlie, just turned five. I want to leave my flat to him; its on the shelf, a simple will. Keep it safe for him.
What boy is that? How will I recognise him?
Youll know. Hes the one who has stood by that secondfloor window for two years, waiting for his mother in a red dress.
The ambulance took Mrs. Whitcombe to the hospital, then to a convalescent home, all expenses covered by Milly. When she returned to the childrens home, the window was empty; Charlie had been adopted.
Rumours swirled that his mother finally came for him. One crisp morning, as Charlie was tending his post, a figure appeared on the roada woman in a scarlet coat. He clutched his heart and shouted, Mum!
She rushed toward him, arms wide, and he ran into her embrace, tears of relief streaming down his cheeks.
Seeing that, Milly wept, hugging the thin boys shoulders, vowing that no child under her roof would ever know such loss again.
Now, years later, Milny, Gregory, and little Charlie live together in a spacious house. Charlie is about to start school, eagerly awaiting the arrival of a younger brother. Mrs. Whitcombe, now fully recovered, still visits, grateful for the love that binds us all.
Looking back, I realise that grief can freeze a heart, but compassion can melt even the coldest stone. I have learned that offering a steady hand, no matter how small, can change a life forever. This is the lesson I carry forward: never underestimate the power of patience and kindness.
